Note: The quoted poem is Rilke (trans. Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows), but that poem (Sonnets to Orpheus II, 29) is from a different book. I just couldn't resist the title of the book I used.

This one got away from me just a bit.

Azrael clawed her way to consciousness and immediately regretted the decision. Her whole body ached, more in some spots than others, though it was a manageable pain. Worse was the fatigue, which made her wonder if somehow the gravity in the room had been increased, pressing her deeper into the bed. She took a cautious breath and then another, deeper one when the first proved to be a success. Bracing herself upright on one elbow with some effort, she surveyed the room: her room, in her house, empty but for herself.

She propped herself up against the headboard, needing the support. Had she hallucinated what she thought she remembered? She'd definitely hit her head, that much was clear, and her memories of her fall were clouded. From the little she remembered, that was a blessing. But the man, the person who'd helped her...

Of course it wasn't him. Of course not. He'd never come here. Not for her.

A chair from the living room was tucked next to her bed, a book spine-up on the seat. Poetry. Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God. She did not remember that she owned that book, though she did enjoy Rilke. Suddenly she had a flash of memory: waking briefly to the sound of a low, deep voice reading to her.

Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,
what batters you becomes your strength.

"Dad." The word emerged as a whisper; she hadn't spoken much lately. She coughed and tried again. "Dad?"

Footsteps sounded from the hall and he appeared in her doorway, a glass of water in hand: an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and beard. He wore a thick, blue sweater, and her cheek remembered its scratchiness. His expression was one of concern. Strange, she thought, to see such a look on a face she associated with her father.

"You shouldn't be up," he said, "but since you are, would you like a drink?"

Azrael stared at him for a long moment, still not quite believing he was there, then nodded. "Please." Manners. He approved of manners.

Her father - her father? - came the rest of the way into the room and held the glass while she drank from the straw. When she'd finished, he set the glass aside and returned to the chair, laying the book next to the glass. "You should lie down," he urged. "That body has been through a lot."

As she had come to a similar conclusion, Azrael eased back, though still at an angle that she could see the man, exhaling a soft sigh. She studied his face, then repeated softly, "Dad?"

He nodded, with a look of inquiry.

She looked away a moment, then back to him. Risking it, she asked, "What are you doing here?"

He shifted in his seat, adjusting the chair so that it was just so. "I come down from time to time. Get the lay of the land, that sort of thing. Never for very long, though; too much to do upstairs." Smiling a little at her shocked expression, he added, "It's not something I advertise, so I'd appreciate it if you would keep that under your hat."

"Of course," Azrael replied immediately, though not without a little inwardly-directed contempt for the surge of pride she felt at his apparent trust. Stop, she chided herself. He probably wants something; that's why he's acting like this. The fact that she knew she'd do what he wanted no matter how he acted... well. Suddenly, though, those times when he wouldn't see anyone made a little more sense.

"I don't think that's what you were asking, though."

Azrael shook her head, thinking - but definitely not saying - that she was certainly used to oblique answers and half-truths from most of her family, and that even that non-answer was more than she was accustomed to hearing from her father.

Something of her mistrust must have shown on her face, for her father sat forward, arms braced against his knees, his clasped hands brushing the bed. He met her gaze with an intensity that made her want to look away, though she found that she couldn't. "I'm here because of what happened in the valley."

Azrael dragged her eyes from her father's, looking at her hands instead. "You mean... the storm?" she queried uneasily. "What happened wasn't as bad as all that."

"It was as bad as all that," he replied, his voice quiet but firm. "If your brother hadn't been keeping an eye on you, if he hadn't told me... child, you took an unacceptable risk."

Azrael looked up once more. Her lips pressed together tightly, then she said, "Even if this body died, I just would have returned to the Silver City." This was clearly not exactly a bad outcome, from her perspective.

"Your work here isn't finished, though," her father said, a familiar stern note creeping into his tone. "You know that."

Azrael nodded. She spoke slowly, doing her best to choose her words with care, though her though her increasing fatigue made that a challenge. "I do," she agreed softly. "I wasn't trying to... to go home. I just... I thought I could make it back here, to the house. I almost did."

"Maybe your definition of almost is different than mine," he chided. "Or maybe you overestimated your abilities."

Azrael tried not to let her resentment show on her face. Yes, she privately admitted, she probably had overestimated her abilities, but she would have been just fine if she'd had her supernatural skills, rather than this mortal body. Seeing her father watching her, she nodded, though she still wasn't going to make the admission aloud.

Her father cleared his throat, drawing her attention once more. "You should talk to someone when you get back to LA," he suggested gruffly. "Samael's therapist. Dr. Martin."

"Dad, I'm fine," Azrael replied, though she kept her tone meek. Catching sight of his frown, she capitulated, "All right. I will. I'll call her when I get back." She risked a glance at her father. He was still watching her, inscrutable as always, and she dared to say, "I just... I don't understand, Father. Michael was going to bring me home, but then Josh said that you want me to go back to LA."

Smiling a little at her nickname for her brother, he nodded. "Circumstances have changed," he said, his expression sobering. "In coming here, you actually contributed to the change."

Azrael kept her expression bland, and managed not to sigh. It was, after all, the sort of answer she'd expected. "I don't suppose you could be more specific?" she suggested, trying a hopeful smile.

"I don't suppose I could."

Of course not.

Azrael fidgeted with her blanket. These awkward silences, she remembered suddenly: they tended to happen on those rare occasions that she was alone with her father. She ventured, more to break the silence than because she expected an actual answer, "Why did you send me there, to LA? Was it... was it because of Uriel?"

"Of course," he replied mildly.

She let her eyes close. She'd never thought he'd say it outright. So Michael had gotten it right after all. "I never imagined that he'd take my blade," she whispered miserably. "Or that he'd come here. Father, I'm sorry, I promise I'll-"

"Azrael, look at me." Startled, she did. "You need to let go of this guilt before it consumes you," her father instructed, though his faint smile implied that he knew this was no easy thing he asked. His face turning mournful, he added, "Uriel was always determined, and Samael... well, he was put in a difficult spot. Your part in your brother's death was very small, child, and you certainly weren't sent here as penance for it."

Azrael stared at her father. Her mind was working slowly, still numbed by the events of the day and by her growing exhaustion. "I don't understand."

Her father leaned closer once more. "How could I ask you to collect the souls of the dead when your brother, whom you loved, had died?" he explained gently. "How could I expect you to deliver them to the Silver City and hear someone else give the welcome speech? You needed a change, daughter, and Samael has always lifted your spirits."

Azrael could not think. She wiped mutely at her overflowing eyes with the back of her hand; her father, after a moment, fumbled a handkerchief from his pocket. She took it and wiped her eyes once more, unable to do anything but look at her father. Finally, she managed, a catch to her voice, "But Michael said..."

"Michael spoke in error, and has been chastised." Seeing Azrael's lips curve just a bit, her father added, a note of reproof in his voice, "Schadenfreude is not becoming, daughter."

Azrael looked away for a moment as she smoothed her features to a more neutral expression, murmuring an apology, but a small, uncharitable part of herself still rejoiced at the news.

Her father did not look fooled, but he said only, "You have more questions, child?"

Azrael nodded. "I... yes." She took a deep breath. "I enjoyed my time in LA, for the most part, and I'll obey you and go back, but will I get to come home?"

"Yes, of course," he replied, sounding a little puzzled. "This was always intended to be temporary; surely your brothers told you that."

With another nod, Azrael replied wryly, "Yes, but one of them was Michael. I believed Josh, of course. I just... wanted to hear it from you."

Her father reached over and patted her hand. "To be clear: yes, you will be able to come home in time, and things will be mostly as they were."

Azrael exhaled a shaky, relieved breath. She noted those key words in time and mostly, but she didn't dare press for details. She'd already learned far more than she'd hoped. "Thank you, Dad." She risked a glance at him and said tentatively, "I would better accomplish your will if I knew what you wanted me to do."

Her father sat up. "Don't worry. I'm sure you'll do just fine." He got to his feet, adding, "I need to be off." He started for the door, then turned, frowning a little. "Tell your mother..."

Azrael sat up a little, summoning alertness, but her father shook his head, apparently changing his mind. "Your brother will be here soon. Just rest until he gets here, all right?"

Azrael sighed. So close. "Which brother?"

"Samael," he replied, with a tight, tense expression that was more like the father she remembered.

"Lucifer," Azrael corrected without thinking, but her father didn't seem to notice. "Dad, wait," she protested. He gave her a look of inquiry, and she continued, "Stay. Talk to him. Please."

Her father shook his head. "Child, that would not be a good idea. Your brother's not ready. He's still too angry."

Azrael hesitated, then replied, her voice quiet but steady, "I don't entirely blame him."

"Azrael -" Her father clearly throttled back his temper - Lucifer, Azrael observed, came by his own temper honestly - and continued more calmly but still with an edge to his voice. "You were very young when all that happened. You don't have a full understanding of the situation."

Azrael regarded her father for a long moment. "You could explain it," she suggested, but her father shook his head. She sighed and struggled to focus. "You're right," she said finally, fatigue blurring her voice. "He's angry. But, Dad, somebody has to take the first step. Please?"

"I'll think about it," he said, moving back to the chair. "Just rest."

And she did, letting her eyes close, trying not to hope that he would read to her some more. Trixie, she decided, had an excellent point about bedtime stories.

"No, I think she must have some sort of grudge against me," Lucifer said irritably, half his attention on keeping the rental car - and it wasn't even a sports car, insult upon injury - on the narrow road. Not that he could see the road under all the snow, but at least his was the only car. "Why else would she be in this ridiculous land of snow? The flight being diverted was bad enough, but now these roads..."

Chloe's chuckle sounded through the car speakers. "Because she knew you'd be driving after a snowstorm to come find her, of course. Just be careful, yeah?"

"The Devil doesn't need to be careful," Lucifer replied carelessly. "But staying on this road would be much easier if the snowplow had come through here lately. I'm nearly there, though."

"Okay, good," Chloe replied. "I'm going to let you go so I'm not distracting you, but call me later?"

Lucifer laughed. "Oh, this isn't nearly distracting enough, Detective. If you really wanted to distract me, you could -"

"Goodbye, Lucifer." Her voice was full of laughter, but she still disconnected the call.

It was probably for the best, though if he were honest with himself, he rather preferred his Detective's voice to the music that replaced it when the call ended. He'd forgotten his iPod, and could only pick up two radio stations, country and Christian talk radio. While he'd amused himself by shouting advice to the callers to the talk show, even that got old. Still, he was getting close to his wayward sister. The trip itself had been tiresome, between the travel and the bloody cold, and he was looking forward to its end. Never mind that he still had the return trip. He glanced down at the feather, carefully tucked into his left cuff and pressing against the skin of his wrist.

The car fishtailed, and Lucifer eased off the gas pedal, pulling his attention back to his driving. He was nearly there, and wouldn't it be embarrassing to get into an accident right on Azrael's doorstop... and it did appear that there would be a doorstop, as a small house had come into view. Lucifer pulled the car off the road and into what passed for a driveway.

Lucifer considered the small house: stucco and stone and horizontal lines, classic Prairie School architecture. Charming. He crunched through the snow and to the front door, lamenting the dampness on his shoes. The door opened to his touch, of course, but the house within was silent.

Under other circumstances, the piano would have drawn his attention. An antique rosewood Steinway upright, it looked like it would be a joy to play, but not just now. The room itself was light and airy, with the far wall of windows looking out on the valley beyond.

Azrael was close, Lucifer could tell; her feather was somehow warm against his skin. It had grown cold for a time, while he was driving, and that still worried him. He strode through the room and opened the nearest door just a bit... and there she was. His heart clenched at the sight of his sister. Azrael, whom he'd only ever seen sleep curled on her side, was stretched out prone on top of the blankets. She was - yes, she was breathing, but how had she grown so thin in such a short time, so pale? And was that dried blood in her hair? Lucifer pushed the door open, but stopped at the sight of the man sitting at Azrael's bedside. "Who are you?" he snarled, his voice no less furious for its low volume. "Get away from my sister!"

The man set aside his book and moved toward Lucifer; the Devil stepped closer to the bed, putting himself between the stranger and Azrael.

"Let's go out," the older man suggested. "Your sister needs to rest, and I wouldn't want us to wake her."

Lucifer nodded after a moment's thought; better to get the man farther from Azrael. He gestured, and the older man preceded him from the room; Lucifer, after a final, worried look at his sister, shut the door behind them.

Lightly tugging one cuff of his sweater, the man crossed to exit to the deck, leading Lucifer outside. Lucifer, after a moment of hovering near his sister's door, followed.

"She's agreed to go back with you," the stranger said. "It'd be best if one of your siblings took her, and you as well, if you like. I don't think she could handle the trip otherwise."

Lucifer looked briefly relieved at the mention of his sister's return to LA, though suspicion clouded his features at the rest of the man's words "Who are you, old man?"

The man considered the windows behind him and prudently took two steps to the side, so he was instead standing before a solid wall. "You know who I am, Samael."

After a moment in which he stared at the other man in shock, Lucifer crossed the deck in three long strides and punched his father square in the jaw with a rather excellent left hook, knocking the man back against the wall behind him. "That's not my name anymore, you bastard!"

His father rubbed at his jaw and regarded his son. "It will always be your name, but I'll call you whatever you want, son."

"Don't call me son," Lucifer spat. "And since when has what I wanted ever mattered to you?"

"Keep your voice down," the older man snapped, with a glance to the still-open door. He closed his eyes for just a moment and took a deep breath, then chuckled wryly. "You always could get under my skin. Sometimes I could tell there'd be a fight just by the set of your shoulders when you came into the room."

Lucifer looked for a moment like he was going to argue with his father's injunction, but he glanced back at the house and nodded briefly. "This isn't nostalgia time," he said, his voice sharp and brittle, a knife that would crumble if it struck a blow. "My question stands."

His father didn't say anything for a long moment. "Son, it was a long time ago-" he began.

"I'm not your son," Lucifer declared, his volume increasing. "Not anymore. Not after the way you treated me. You gave up the right to call me that."

The older man looked away, out the window. "Lucifer," he addressed his son: a concession. "Lucifer," he repeated, though it seemed to pain him to say it. "It's always mattered," he said quietly. "But what you did - I couldn't overlook it. It set a precedent. I couldn't let it go."

"So you threw me out," Lucifer sneered, "Sent me down to Hell. Brilliant solution, old man. You couldn't come up with something else? No, of course not. You didn't want to get your hands dirty."

His father didn't speak for a moment. "It had to be done," he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "I couldn't let your siblings think I'd tolerate such behavior."

Lucifer threw up his hands in exasperation, turning on his heel. "Who among them would have followed my example? Amenadiel, your warrior? Michael, everyone's favorite sycophant? That idiot Raziel?" Gesturing sharply back to the house, he added, "My sweet little sister Azrael, who still thinks you hung the moon even after everything you've done to her? None of them would have dared."

"Technically, I did hang the moon," his father pointed out. Ignoring his son's profound eye roll, he added, "And Amenadiel isn't exactly the best example to give, considering his current status. As for your sister, she's content with her fate."

"She's not content," Lucifer protested. "She's going along with you so that you'll let her come home."

The older man sighed. "She knows that I'm going to let her come home as soon as she accomplishes her task. I explained all that to her today."

"Right. And what task is it, pray, that involves you sending her to me?" Lucifer queried sharply. "Are you using my sister to interfere in my life?"

His father didn't say anything.

"Answer me," Lucifer pressed.

"Son, you don't-"

It was too much. Lucifer flared into his other form, eyes blazing. "Call me son one more time," he roared. Gesturing at himself, he added, "Look at what you have wrought, Dad. Like what you see?"

His father stepped forward, one hand lifted, but Lucifer batted it away, inexplicably near tears. "Don't touch me. Don't-"

The other stepped back, shook his head. "I shouldn't have stayed," he said quietly. "You're not ready."

"I'm not ready?" Lucifer protested, his form unchanged. "Ready for what?"

But he questioned emptiness, for his father had left.

With an inarticulate roar of frustration, Lucifer stepped forward to punch the wall. He felt a hand on his shoulder and, perhaps thinking his father had returned, turned with a new target for his punch. The other deflected the blow and redirected the energy, sending him staggering toward the edge of the deck.

"Oh," Lucifer said, upon seeing who it was. "It's you. Of course," he sneered. "He doesn't want to deal with me, so he sends you to do his dirty work." His manic grin was particularly unsettling in his burned form. "Well, you'll do."

Josh considered Lucifer with a barely aspirated sigh. "Seriously? Fine, if that's what you want." He stepped off the deck and into the snow, which rose to his knees. Hands at his sides, he said, "Go ahead, then."

"Oh, don't be such a fucking martyr, Yeshua," Lucifer sneered, following him to the ground.

Josh snorted back a laugh and held up his arms shoulder-height, parallel to the floor. "Can't be avoided, sorry."

Lucifer rolled his blazing eyes and advanced on his brother.

Lucifer had gone from furious to frustrated over the past ten minutes. Try as he might, he couldn't lay a hand on his youngest brother, though Josh hadn't hit him, either, only tossed him lightly to the ground each time Lucifer had approached. Flat on his back in the snow for at least the fifth time, he finally reverted to his human form and queried, "When did you turn into Action Jesus with the Kung-fu Grip?" At least his brother was breathing hard. That was some small consolation.

Josh shook his head with a small smile, leaning down to offer a hand up. "It's aikido, actually."

Lucifer shrugged and got up without assistance. "Aikido grip doesn't really have the same ring, though." He straightened his suit jacket and sighed, giving it up as a lost cause. Jacket, pants, shoes... and Beatrice wasn't even involved.

Josh nodded, conceding the point and moving to sit on one of the wide deck stairs after first brushing off some of the snow. "I think... well, seeing you in your other form, it was hard for him."

Lucifer rolled his eyes. "Oh, well," he drawled sarcastically. "I'd hate to make anything difficult for him, goodness knows. If he thinks seeing it is a challenge, he should try living it." He kicked a clump of snow with an exasperated huff. "What was he even doing here? He never comes here. And what's the matter with Rae? She looks half-dead in there."

Josh leaned down and grabbed a handful of snow, absently compacting it into a ball. "He came here because of Rae. She was out when the storm hit, far side of the valley. Tried to fly back. It... didn't go well."

Lucifer winced. "And the old man was watching out for her?" he queried, his tone disbelieving.

"Well, no," Josh replied, his smile a little bitter. "I was. I came to visit her earlier in the week, gave her some news she didn't like, so I was keeping tabs on her. She... it was bad, brother. I couldn't have healed her, not in time, nor even Raphael. But Dad came. She'll be okay, but she needs to rest."

Lucifer snorted, and moved to sit on the step near Josh. "What, Dad's got you bearing his bad news, now? Lucky you. As for healing Rae, he probably doesn't want to find another flunky to do his bidding, that's all."

Shaking his head, Josh sighed. "He does care for her, Lucifer, he-"

"Yes, well, he doesn't show it very well, does he? Not that that's anything new." Lucifer looked toward the far end of the valley, judging the distance and shaking his head. "I know he's written me off, but the way he's treated Rae..." He shook his head.

"He hasn't written you off," Josh countered, though not without a wary look for his most volatile brother.

Lucifer looked over and said flatly, "Right. Because kicking me out and consigning me to Hell is the sign of a caring, involved parent."

"Believe what you will," Josh replied. "But you're still his son, for all that you won't let him call you that."

Lucifer snorted. "Snooping, were you?"

Josh shrugged. "It's not like he would have told me how that particular conversation went." He looked over, then. "Rae asked him to stay to talk to you, you know. She begged him. That he stayed, talked to you... that means something."

"No, it doesn't," Lucifer replied flatly. "He said... he didn't..." He looked over at his brother, then growled, "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" Josh replied mildly.

"Like I'm some pathetic, pitiful creature. The Devil doesn't need pity."

"The Devil," Josh replied with a grin, "Needs to stop talking in the third person so much." And he tossed his snowball at his brother, snow exploding into Lucifer's ear and sliding past his shirt collar.

Feeling the cold soak along his spine, Lucifer stared at his brother. "You did not just do that."

"Didn't I?" Josh replied with a grin. He leaned down to scoop up some more snow. "You sure? Well, I guess I should show you again." With that, Josh launched into a dive roll and came up with another snowball, which he flung into Lucifer's chest. "Come on, brother," he urged, grinning. "Maybe you can hit me when you use a snowball, since you sure can't with your fists."

Lucifer drew himself upright, offended, opened his mouth to protest... and promptly ate another snowball.

Lucifer spat out a mouthful of snow. "That does it." He stood, dove behind a bush and started to amass an arsenal of snowballs, much to Josh's delight.

"This'll get him out of his sulk," he mused, compacting another snowball. "Hopefully..."

Azrael braced herself against the door and flicked on the light in her bathroom, wincing a little at the sight of her reflection. She cast a longing look at her shower, but didn't even try; she was reasonably certain that she wouldn't be able to stay upright long enough, much as she wanted to be clean. Lucifer was on his way, apparently, and having him find her in the shower would be too much. She brushed her teeth, reflecting that it was odd that such a small thing could make her feel better, then sat on the toilet and dampened a washcloth, doing her best to get the blood out of her hair.

The surreal nature of her day hit her with a jolt, and she leaned forward, bracing her arms on her thighs, her head in her hands. How much of what she remembered was real? The fall, yes. She wouldn't feel so horrible after just a regular day of flying. But the rest?

Azrael made her careful way back to her room. There was the glass, still partly full of water. And there, next to it, was the book. She picked it up, one hand anchoring herself to the table, and bent down precariously to tuck it into her backpack.

A shout from beyond the room caught her attention. Lucifer? But why would he be out back? More importantly, why would he be shouting? Did her father stay after all?

She could not move quickly, but she put as much urgency as she could into her passage through the rooms and to the door to the deck.

She pushed the door, which was already partly open, and looked out, leaning heavily on the doorjamb. The cold roused her a little, but she was still entirely perplexed by the sight that met her: Lucifer and Josh sprawled side by side in the snow, both ruddy with cold and breathing hard.

"Are you guys... making snow angels?" she queried, her confusion obvious.

Lucifer sat up and dusted the worst of the snow out if his hair, looking over at her with some concern. "No, of course not. We were..." He fumbled for an answer, looking to Josh.

"You shouldn't be up," Josh protested, getting to his feet. "Go inside and sit down." He offered Lucifer a hand up, and this time his brother accepted.

Azrael looked between her brothers and nodded, making her way into the house.

"She didn't complain about me telling her what to do," Josh murmured, frowning.

By the time Lucifer and Josh entered, having shaken off the worst of the snow, Azrael had wrapped herself in a quilt and curled into the corner of the couch. "It's freezing out there. Sorry, I don't have coffee or anything ready..." She moved to get up, but subsided when Lucifer waved her back down.

"No worries, little sis. I come prepared." He pulled his flask out of his pocket and took a swig, then offered the flask to Josh.

The youngest of the trio took the flask and drank, brows lifting at its contents. Seeing Azrael's started expression, he said, "What? It's not like I'm not associated with alcohol, and this is much better than communion wine. Good stuff," he added to Lucifer, returning the flask.

"Only the best," Lucifer agreed. He gave Azrael a look of inquiry, extending the flask, but she shook her head.

"Thanks, but no," she said. "I don't need anything else messing with my head just now." She looked between her brothers. "Is... everything okay?"

Josh looked over to Lucifer, who took another swig from the flask and tucked it away. "By which you mean-" Here he spoke in a falsetto, affecting Azrael's accent, "How did things go with Dad?" He leveled a hard look at Azrael. "Heard you asked him to stay and talk with me. Thanks for that, really."

Azrael winced at the sarcasm and ducked her head. "Never mind. Sorry."

"Yes, well, I'm assuming you had a head injury when you thought that was a good idea," Lucifer continued, his tone biting. "So I'll let it slide this time, but-"

"Lucifer," Josh protested. "Leave her alone."

"Don't, Josh," Azrael said quietly. "I don't want another argument." She looked up at Lucifer. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "I hoped something good would come of it, but clearly I was wrong." She closed her eyes, settling a little deeper into the couch.

Lucifer considered his sister with a frown. "He said that you want to come back to LA with me."

Azrael nodded, her eyes still closed, replying tonelessly, "If you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it."

"What if I do mind?"

Azrael opened her eyes and sat up sharply, then winced, one hand lifting to her head. "What? Brother, please. Whatever it is he wants me to do, I need to be in LA."

"Right," Lucifer agreed crisply. "He wants you there to fulfill some purpose, likely something to do with me." He took out his flask and knocked back another drink. "Whatever it is, I no doubt disagree with it, and I see no need to help him make it happen."

Azrael stared at her older brother, her mind gone numb with shock. "But, Lucifer, if I don't do what he wants..." She couldn't finish, but sank back against the couch once more.

"Lucifer, it might not have anything to do with you," Josh snapped. "You're not the center of the universe, after all." Seeing a red-eye glare aimed his way, he finished, "Just... stop being cruel."

"Why?" Lucifer demanded. "I am the Devil, after all."

Josh crossed to his brother, his expression gone dark. "Do you know what she's given up for you?"

"Josh, shut up," Azrael said intently.

"No, Josh," Lucifer sneered. "Tell me, what could my little sister have possibly given up for me."

"Josh-" Azrael urged, but her younger brother ignored her, talking over her.

"The day she showed her wings to your detective - something that worked out well for you, I might add - Michael was going to take her back to the Silver City," Josh said, holding Lucifer's gaze as he spoke. "She said no, because she wanted to make sure you knew what had happened. She didn't want you to be caught unawares."

Lucifer's jaw worked for a moment, and then he brushed past Josh to sit next to Azrael on the couch. She seemed particularly small, he noticed. "Is that really what happened?" he asked quietly. Azrael looked away, and Lucifer protested, "I never asked you to do that - never would have asked that of you."

"I know you wouldn't," Azrael replied, her voice barely audible.

"I could have handled the situation," Lucifer said.

Azrael's voice didn't change. "I know you could have. I just... didn't want to disappear without you knowing what happened. It didn't seem right."

Lucifer didn't speak, keeping silent until Azrael finally turned to look at him. "Thank you, little sister," he said, his voice rich with sincerity, his expression stunned. "If you'd like to come back with me to LA, you are more than welcome to do so."

Azrael exhaled a shaky breath and nodded. She hesitated for a moment and then all but launched herself at Lucifer. He wondered briefly if the Detective's offspring had been giving her lessons, but then decided that he didn't care, hugging his sister close.